You guys would not believe how busy I've been lately. Sorry for the dryness happening around my page here.
Have a short unedited SH4 fic, and feel free to check out my art page on Facebook (facebook dot com slash brezifus)
By the Numbers
That was it.
That was it.
He was done, done with all of this. Five people were dead, they had died in front of him in the most violent, twisted ways imaginable. Hollywood dared not touch the scenes he had witnessed, dared not think of writing descriptions for the screams and cries he had heard as the last breaths left their bodies. Henry held the gun in his hand, weighing it experimentally.
First there was Cynthia. Stabbed in the back more times than he had fingers and toes. Blood pooled everywhere, mortalizing her "dream" and making the once curvy, sensual street woman shiver and crumble in his arms.
Henry flicked the safety switch.
Click.
Second was Jasper. His stutter was persistent but not debilitating. Perhaps what was most haunting was the fact that when he screamed his final words of cultish nonsense his voice did not waver, stop, or struggle over itself as the heat of the flames burned away his flesh until Henry almost vomited from the sweet smell of charred meat.
Click.
Third, Andrew, who seemed to have a horrible mix of fate and bad karma. By then Henry was slowly starting to realize that the prison guard had a right to be terrified to the point of disorder. He had missed the violence of Andrew's death, but there was still a sinking feeling in his chest as he watched the putrid water ripple about the heavy man's corpse.
Click.
Fourth, Richard. He had apparently lived across from Henry on the opposite wing of the apartment building, but he only vaguely remembered his wild eyes and cold face from brief, intimidating encounters in the hallways. As much infamy as Richard gained, he did not deserve what he had received. The sickening convulsions plagued Henry's thoughts as the scar tissue on the palm of his hand itched as he moved his thumb over the safety again.
Click.
Eileen.
Click.
With Cynthia it was just blood; blood everywhere. And yes, blood had stained everything Eileen had as well, but this was different. He had seen the crooked angle to her arm, the slight twist of her ankle, the already darkening bruises marring her skin that had already been spider-webbed with blood. The more he stared at her gasping for life the more he realized that she was slowly becoming the portrait of an abused spouse, the portrait of a poor mother as she reached out to touch the wayward boy's shoe with the crooked arm.
CLICK.
He stood up. To the window. There were sirens outside and it was loud.
It wasn't fair.
Who the hell was he, traveling cross-dimensions just to see people die. He was fighting to stay alive for what, to see people die. Escape was a stupid fantasy now. The room was still here and he was still in it, and all promised exits led to dead or dying bodies. And what for? For the others he could at least guess at a previous crime or vice that could've led to punishment, but Eileen?
Eileen?
What the fuck had she done?
Nothing he could think of deserved punishment.
Nothing!
But who was he to know, some nobody in the apartment next door, some poor photographer not worth enough to gain a steady job, not worth enough to even engage in small talk with the other tenants, not worth enough to save her life, only worth enough to watch her die.
The ambulance sped off but Henry knew Eileen had died.
Henry knew Eileen had died.
Eileen had died.
Died.
Die, die, die, die.
Funny, the word held no meaning to him anymore. It only sounded weird in his head, after so many pathetic echoes in his empty mind.
He felt the cold barrel press against his temple and the sleek trigger beneath his trembling finger.
Click.